Somewhere between Columbia and Kingdom City, I started to feel really bad. Nauseous, dizzy, achy, hot and cold.
I just knew I was going to get sick.
I think I have been sick every Thanksgiving for the last five years but I used to attribute it to plane travel and LA stress.
This was bad. I was fine one minute and the next I thought I would have to pull over on the side of the highway. It was going to be a long drive and an even longer night.
My step-sister and the boys would be in town and it would be a full court press to see how much family time we could all spend together in 24 hours.
Growing up an only child, the holidays have always been a little difficult for me. It is a lot of sensory overload and as much as I love my family, even the mellowest family functions can cause anxiety. Lots of voices in not enough space.
When I walked in the door to my father's house the family was crowded in the kitchen. Before I could make my round of hellos, Billy, my step-sister's two year old approached me stone-faced. I was just getting ready to bend down and greet him hello when he pulled a dart-gun from behind his back and shot me in the chest.
It seemed fitting.
I spent the rest of the night hiding in the bathroom with my head over the toilet trying not to die.
That's what the holidays feel like to me, sudden shock followed by uproarious laughter and mild case of indigestion.